La Mort et le Petit Lapin
by GarGoyl
Summary: English – Death and the Little Rabbit. Victorian England AU - the newly appointed detective Arthur Kirkland and his colleague A. Jones are trying to find the culprit behind a series of monstrous crimes. But Death has long fingers and this mission might very well be their last. Non-fluff, non-con FRUK, dark themes, vampirism. I don't own Hetalia.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

A/N – And now a few words of introduction…

a) This fic is vaguely inspired from the atmosphere of the novel "Drood" by Dan Simmons (if you've read it you'll see what I'm talking about), but the plot is completely unrelated, so fortunately no magic scarabs will crawl into anyone's brains… However, it's been obsessing me lately and although I have lots of other things in progress and to do in general, I feel compelled to 'bring it to life'. Yeah.

b) The story is mainly following Arthur's perspective, but occasionally other characters' perspective will be included as well, for plot purposes.

c) This story will not be for the faint of heart, so you have been warned. My inner demons are back at work.

d) I will be adding a soundtrack to each chapter, for the fun of it – all the stuff can be found on you-... tube.

_**Chapter 1 soundtrack:**_

AFI - Kiss My Eyes And Lay Me To Sleep (full)

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

Zomby – Spliff dub

Kuroshitsuji OST 1 ∞ Coffin man

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><p>"<em>My fingers have known every inch of your skin and my body has become one with yours, yet I have still to know your first name, constable," the Frenchman said, his long pale fingers resting against the low window frame. <em>

"_Arthur…" the other grumbled, right before a nasty coughing fit shook his lithe body under the covers. He resisted the need to pull them tighter around himself, his gaze never leaving the man standing at the foot of the bed._

"_Well, then, _mon cher_ Arthur, let me tell that you will not pull the trigger. And even if you do, the damage inflicted to my body will be minimal and easily remedied, thus the effort of your movement will be an utter waste." _

_Green eyes blinked sleepily as their owner struggled helplessly to focus, the hand holding up the pistol surprisingly steady, its aim still without flaw. _

"_You sir, are an abomination."_

"_Quite so."_

_The next moment - barely registered by the smaller blond – the dark shadow lunged forward, over the bed and his free hand was gripped and pressed against the sheets. Francis leaned over, a few long and curly strands escaping from the midnight blue silk of the ribbon and their tips nearly brushing against the side of the detective's face. _

"_In this truly dark and unfortunate hour, I have a mind to ask of the ultimate forbidden pleasure, _mon petit lapin_. So… Arthur… would you give me your lips? Would you give yourself to me at last, completely, body and soul?"_

_Arthur moaned softly, a light scowl creasing his brow as his thumb pulled back the hammer and the muzzle of the pistol was pressed into the blonde locks, where the predator's temple would be._

"_Give you, _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy?!" He breathed hard, sensing he was about to choke again in another fit. "What is there left to give, have you not had everything already?"_

_Dark blue bore into light green as the Frenchman leaned lower, the tip of his nose nearly touching the other man's. Then he spoke slowly and softly, as if in confession. "I have indeed, _mon cher_. I have had almost all of my heart's desires and more than any man could ever dream of. But you see, everything I've had I have taken. Shamelessly so…" He chuckled at the last word, his cold breath adding to the lack of heat in the small room. "And now… I crave to _be given_… more. Will you give me what I crave, Arthur?" _

"_Monster… I swore to destroy you! I… "the detective shook his head weakly. "I cannot let you live! You must not live further!"_

_Teasing lips brushed against his ear as his words only seemed to bring mirth to the beast hovering above him. "But I am not _alive_ at all. I haven't been in a very long time. Thus, you cannot hope to kill me with lead, only pain me with rejection. Will you truly do that?"_

_The Englishman somehow managed to yank his other hand free from the man's grip and his fingers shot up, clawing at the frilly collar and seeking to dig into the throat underneath. The muzzle of the pistol left Francis' temple and slipped down, under his arm and over his side, until it found its way right under his ribcage. A faint smile crept upon Arthur's dry, pale lips._

"_I've nothing left to lose, sir, so I might just as well spare you of further pain as it is," he whispered. "You can have my lips, as well as my lead."_

_Three gunshots resounded in the small, cold room, muffled by the flesh they were directed at. Francis paled, his smile faltering as he gripped the offending hand, pushing it away from his injured body and intertwining his long, slender fingers among the smaller ones, such that the pistol dropped to the floor with a clatter. His other hand was used as support as he moaned in pain and leaned in lower, kissing at last – kissing and biting in the same time – the mouth at last offered to him. A trail of blood slid down the pale cheek from the corner of Arthur's lips, the Frenchman sighing against them as the body beneath him went limp. _

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><p><em>A police report dated 18 December 1867 stated that constables Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones had disappeared somewhere in the underground place unofficially known as 'Little Underworld'. Their bodies had never been found. <em>

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><p><em><strong>October 1867<strong>_

The sickly sweet scent of decay filled the room – the body had been there a while. Though perhaps 'a body' was a bit of an overstatement. The gruesomely mangled remains were covered in dried, blackened blood and only a few pieces of the woman's silk garments were left, torn and sullied. Surprisingly, her head with luscious ebony curls was intact and severed neatly from the rest of her like a doll's, not a drop of blood smeared onto the pretty, youthful face with peacefully closed eyes and only slightly parted lips. A scarlet ribbon was still artistically tied around what was left of her throat, as if it were the wrapping of a present. But death had taken its cruel and sinister toll on beauty, turning pale skin to dark yellow parchment and sinking the orbs into their sockets.

"So this would be the… eleventh victim," detective Arthur Kirkland stated stiffly, turning slightly towards his younger colleague, Alfred F. Jones, who stood further away, the back of his gloved hand pressed tightly against his mouth. "The same appearance of the corpse as in the other cases, thus we can assume the same modus operandi."

Furrowing his thick eyebrows, the detective leaned over and picked a corner of the scarlet ribbon carefully between his fingers and gave it a light tug. The silk slipped from its knot and unfolded, revealing a few dried droplets of blood on the inside, which hadn't quite made it to the other side of the fabric. In the same time, the blond noticed small puncture wounds into the skin just below the jaw line.

"Bite marks…" he muttered to himself.

"You don't suppose she was smoking pipe, do you? Or whatever this thing is…" the younger constable asked, holding up an item which had been lying on the floor behind the sofa. "Maybe it belongs to the culprit, the landlady did say she was being visited by various men, and quite often too."

Arthur straightened his back, still holding the end of the ribbon pensively. "Anyone with a dog?"

"Wasn't mentioned. Why a dog?"

"A large dog presumably. My theory – by the look of things – is that she was killed, hacked and then someone (most likely the killer) allowed a dog to have its way with the torn body. Some parts indeed appear to have been devoured and there are distinctive teeth marks on the arm and on the neck as well," the green-eyed blond explained. "Dr. Braginski will probably be able to tell us more about it after the examination." He sighed. "And that is an opium pipe, so it could have been hers…"

Arthur took the long, thin object made of dark polished wood and with bronze bowl and mouthpiece and brought it to his nose. A vaguely sweet, flower-like smell still lingered on it, making its use beyond doubt. "Right. An opium pipe. A finely crafted one, rather expensive, I'd say. I doubt anyone would have left it behind, unless they were in a great hurry. But whoever produced this mess was obviously _not_ in a hurry, so it's safe to assume it was hers."

"Excuse me, are you finished yet?" another policeman popped his head inside the room, looking questioningly at the two of them.

The detective nodded curtly. "Yes, for now we are. You lads can come in and gather up…"

Muffling a cough, he started down the stairs with Jones in tow, already composing in his head the introduction of the report he was to write when they arrived back at the station. Yet another one sans conclusion. A hand suddenly gripped the policeman's arm as he eventually reached the bottom of the stairs and he turned rather startled, to meet the creepy chuckle of the old landlady.

"Wait up a moment, sir!" she croaked, digging hastily in the pocket of her dirty apron.

"What is it? Have you remembered anything else, madam?"

The hag shook her head, but held up a worn card with yellowed, crooked fingers and grinned. "I have not but that poor deceased girl upstairs… she used to go down there, to that place, what's it called? 'Little Underworld' I believe, you must know of it, constable!" Saying that she winked, or at least Arthur thought so. "There's a fancy gentleman there who might help you!"

The green-eyed young man blinked and stared at her, taking in the woman's features thoughtfully – she couldn't have been really that old, but the decrepitude of her appearance was of a different nature, as if she had withered before her time in a foul fashion. He silently gathered that she must have been smoking opium as well.

"Well, thank you, madam," he replied with a small nod, pale fingers reaching up to the brim of his hat as he did so. Fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket, Arthur picked up the card with two fingers, examining it briefly as the hag promptly shut the door of her room in their nose.

"_Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy, Baronet – Clairvoyant and Philosopher_. Oh, jolly good. A frog with a crystal ball," he observed bluntly, flicking the card upwards with his thumb. Alfred caught it just in time as it flew and frowned at it, while the other constable proceeded to blow his nose loudly.

They stepped outside into the cold drizzle which had begun pouring incessantly since early morning and out of the way of the rest of the staff. Arthur threw a glance at the black wagon of the morgue waiting by the sidewalk and sighed deeply, feeling a sting as the cold air entered his lungs.

"But Arthur, you don't suppose… that we should go after this man, do you? The landlady said that he dwells in the 'Little Underworld'…" Jones began warily, still unwilling to show the full extent of his reluctance.

"I don't see why not, everyone knows where that damned place is. And I suppose that at least the weather is better down there for a change."

This weather was bad for him - he knew – and it was only bloody October. Right now he should have been resting in a soft armchair, in front of a blazing fireplace, with a cup of hot, strong tea by his side. But constable Arthur Kirkland did not have the means to afford this sort of lavish lifestyle, he had to work hard for a living. In all kinds of weather.

"But policemen never go there…" the younger insisted weakly.

The Englishman pursed his mouth in a pained grimace as he glanced at his younger colleague. Alfred F. Jones had had it hard enough already and had struggled hard to earn the life he was living now. He'd traveled from New Orleans to London with his mother in search of a new life away from a wicked family, only to lose her soon afterwards. The poor woman had been run over by a drunk carriage driver and the young American had been left alone in the world, with not a soul to care for him.

Arthur himself – coming from a numerous but now entirely departed family – entertained neither the desire nor the hope of being wed and having children of his own, but fate had decided to 'bless' him on several occasions with the task of caring for _other people's_ children. A task which he had found endlessly annoying and troublesome until he had met young Alfred, freshly recruited with the force and rather helpless and unaware. He'd taken a fondness for the boy – although Alfred was only four years younger – and felt responsible for his wellbeing and safety. Admittedly, in this very moment, he wasn't doing a very good job at that.

"Alfred, I'm afraid we don't have much of a choice at this point, we still have no leads and the corpses continue to pile up. So we have to do something, even if it means talking to this man, whoever the hell he is."

* * *

><p>The icy drizzle had intensified by the time they passed through the gates of the old cemetery, the wet tombstones looking more desolate than usual and the barely cobblestoned paths turned to mud. The two constables walked up the main alley in complete silence, only occasionally broken by Arthur's pestering cough. Hell, he did not yet dare think of wintertime.<p>

"There! That's where the entrance is supposed to be!" Alfred's gloved hand pointed hesitantly towards a small mausoleum adorned with Greek columns, now cracked and covered in dry, blackened ivy strains. It had a simple, thick wooden door with rusty hinges in the shape of vine leaves, which was slightly ajar for some reason.

The two of them reached the indicated place and stared at it for a while, the blue-eyed blond warily and the other with an increasing scowl, before Arthur determinedly pulled out his truncheon and gave a firm push to the door. It creaked open, revealing a marble floor covered in dirt and dry leaves and a staircase spiraling down into the darkness below.

"Shouldn't we have brought lanterns?"

The green-eyed constable continued to scowl, this time at the depths of the well below. "Oh, to hell with it…" He pulled out a small flask from the inside of his coat and took his time unscrewing the cap, taking a hearty swig of scotch and screwing the cap back on. The strong spirit burned down his throat and brought some warmth into his body.

"Come now, Alfred, I'm sure we can do without lanterns."

They started down the treacherous spiral of worn and chipped steps cautiously, but it really was only a brief descent. A narrow corridor began at the bottom of the stairs, pitch dark, but the two still decided to push on. Unseen debris was crunching under their feet as they advanced, patting blindly at the wall. Arthur had expected solid stone, but instead he could feel the distinctive shape of bricks under his fingers. He decided to focus on the regular, familiar pattern, ignoring the stale smell of the place which had an odd tint of smoke in it.

The path turned a corner at some point and then opened into a surprisingly large hall – albeit with low ceiling. Niches and crypts could be seen everywhere, except in the far back where there was a large, rusty iron gate flanked by torches. The torches only cast a dim, flickering light and filled the room with a thick, foul-smelling smoke, but the constables were still able to see a hunched figure standing guard by the gate.

The figure stirred brusquely as the two walked up towards it, standing surprisingly straight and tall all the sudden. Arthur squinted a bit, his gaze trailing over the man's dirty face, forehead shadowed by unruly dark bangs, to the menacing glare of his eyes, all the way down to the wicked gleam of the blade in his hand.

"Now… wha' might ye two pretty boys doin' down 'ere?" the guard drawled. "Don't ye know the rule o' this place? No police!" The knife was weighed in the man's hand intently as he spoke, taking a purposeful step forward.

The younger constable's hand flew to his pistol on reflex, but the detective pressed down on his arm gently, shaking his head. "Sir, I assure you that we're not here to cause any inconvenience to this… establishment. We simply require the expertise of _Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy – Clairvoyant and Philosopher_ and we were told that this is where we could find this fine gentleman," he said calmly.

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise and he groaned, pondering as he gave the two a slow once-over.

"Alright…" he decided eventually. "But just ye keep in mind, there's only so many times ye can fire those lil' toy pistols o' yers before the rest of us jump ye and tear ye into very tiny shreds. So don't ye try anythin' funny, aye? Mr. Wang is sure to keep an eye on ye!"

The rusty gate was opened for them to enter, a surprising view suddenly opening to their eyes at the top of yet more stairs to descend. The 'Little Underworld' must have been the size of a small village, the system of crypts and catacombs run through by a multitude of narrow, poorly illuminated paths having an eerie atmosphere seen from above. Above, in the 'ceiling' there must have been several ventilation shafts, such that the smoke from the countless fires and torches did not become suffocating and there was a constant supply of fresh air. Arthur had been right about one thing – down here the weather was better, it didn't rain and it certainly was a lot less cold than outside.

As soon as the two constables reached the bottom ground, where the draft was less present, a wave of heavily scented smoke hit their nostrils. Everywhere there were rooms – some large, lavishly decorated and furnished with soft, pillow-laden sofas and oriental carpets, while others small and cramped, almost the size of a regular crypt, containing cots covered in rags – all serving a single purpose, for the richer and for the poorer customers alike.

"So this is, I presume, the largest opium den owned by the infamous Mr. Yao Wang," Arthur observed.

They did their best to ignore the suspicious stares and even murmurs stirred by their presence there and asked for directions as to where the mysterious Frenchman could be found as briefly as possible. But no one asked – as neither had the guard – why they were looking for the man. The pale, thin Chinese boy Alfred had first showed the card to had shied away from it and had let out what had sounded something akin to a frightened babble. An older man had answered instead, giving precise indications this time, but his reluctance was obvious.

"Arthur… you don't suppose that _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy could be dangerous, do you?" the younger policeman voiced his concern in a whisper.

His green-eyed friend scowled and rolled his eyes openly at the suggestion. "For God's sake, he's a bloody _fortuneteller_!" he muttered humorlessly, feeling rather unsettled by the sight of the pale, haunted faces and glazed eyes of the people lying around on beds, sofas and cots, smoking and dwelling in a world of their own. Some were young, others old, but their withering was alike, albeit to various extents, their addiction all-powerful and consuming in the same time.

The smoke stirred his cough again, on top of causing a light dizziness to take over, thus Arthur resorted to covering his nose and mouth with his handkerchief. He coughed nevertheless and, as it happened often after a day in the cold, his chest eventually began to hurt and feel hollow. Damn. He checked his pocket watch – it was already five in the evening. After they talked to this man (hopefully it would not prove a complete waste of time), they would go home at last and he would lie down in bed for a bit before dinner.

A thick, dark blue velvet curtain was draped over the alcove where _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy apparently resided, faint light flickering behind it. A small oil lamp burned outside as well, casting dancing shadows over the shapely form of a young woman who stood guard.

"Good evening, madam! We were wondering if we could have a word with _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy?" the detective asked politely.

By his side, Alfred observed the black velvet-clad woman in awe, yet with a bad feeling in his gut. Although she currently held an opium pipe in her hand, a thin thread of smoke rising from the silvery bowl, she looked nothing like the poor wretches they'd seen along the way. Her long, black or maybe dark chestnut hair was rich and well-kept, her skin smooth and fresh (albeit of an unnatural porcelain whiteness), her green eyes bright and cunning and lips full, much too red.

"Just a moment…"

The brunette leaned and pulled open the curtain a bit, poking her head inside and whispering something. Almost immediately afterwards some stirring could be heard and Arthur straightened his back, putting the handkerchief away as the curtain was drawn aside and_ Monsieur_ Francis Bonnefoy, Baronet came into view.

Upon laying eyes on the man, the Englishman's first impulse, however unexplainable, was to turn around on his heels and march off, to such extent that he even caught himself mentally assessing how long it would have taken to get the hell out of that horrid place and reach the surface at top speed. Yet there was nothing repulsive about the fortuneteller's appearance, quite on the contrary. He was a strikingly handsome young man and, just like the woman, in surprisingly good shape for an opium addict. For the fact was beyond doubt – on the sill framing his lavish sofa placed in the alcove there stood a large, finely crafted hookah and several pipes, as well as supplies. Or maybe it was just that they hadn't been smoking long enough for the effects to become visible? Arthur resolved it wasn't any of his business – he had expected to see some decrepit, ruined noble selling artistically fabled stories to anyone who was either insane or stupid enough to come down here, heavily risking to be mugged or have their throat cut – and was simply surprised, that was all. Because everyone knew that Yao's underground den was far from being an 'idyllic', peaceful place of retreat and leisure.

"_Bon soir_!" the Frenchman said, greeting the two with a pleasant smile which showed beautiful, pearly-white teeth. His dark-blue eyes were taking in the pair observantly but with amused curiosity nevertheless. He didn't bother to sit up from his sprawled out pose on the pillows, merely raising a hand to toy with the long, silky blonde curls tied back with a bright red ribbon. His clothing – a frilly white shirt under a long, black velvet overcoat, white breeches ending just below the knee and silk stockings – was severely out of fashion, anachronistic even, but it was probably a sign of the man's eccentricity.

"Good evening, sir," the green-eyed blond replied, vaguely irritated by the French greeting. "I am detective Kirkland and this is constable Jones. We're here to ask you some questions, if you'd be so kind as to answer them," he said stiffly, holding his chin up.

The Frenchman rubbed his chin thoughtfully with a slender, pale hand adorned with a large sapphire ring on the index finger. His vague smirk never faltering, he graciously tilted his head to the side, raising a thin eyebrow. "Ah well, of course! How may I help you gentlemen?"

Bastard! He only afforded this nonchalant attitude because he knew that down here the two policemen could do nothing to him.

"We are investigating a series of murders occurred recently and we were told by a reliable source that you might provide us with some insights into the matter. All the more since the last victim was an opium user..." Just as he was saying the words, it dawned on Arthur that the salacious hag who had tried to flirt with him earlier was probably eager to win the favor of the beautiful Frenchman by bringing him more customers. Well, like hell they were going to pay!

"I see," Bonnefoy replied, "you were told that I sell information and indeed, it is one of my occupations. You must be referring to what the newspapers have described as 'the most brutal, barbaric homicides in the last half a century', _n'est ce pas_? All those lovely mademoiselles of delightfully dubious reputation… Well, I do not have anything on that. _Yet_."

Here it comes, Arthur thought, as for some unknown reason the man's smile widened.

"If it were possible for you to come back in two days' time, constables, I swear to make every effort to aid a noble cause," the fortuneteller declared smugly. "Oh, and do not trouble yourselves over compensation, among other things I feast on the beauty of this world and momentarily I find myself very pleased, ohonhonhon."

Alfred blinked, furrowing his brow and completely at a loss as to what to make of the thoroughly odd comment. The man wasn't by any chance _flirting_ with them, was he? But the gaze of those mesmerizing blue eyes was trained intently and solely on his colleague, whose stiff stance was borderline hostile at this point. Nope, he was most likely mocking them.

"Well then, we greatly appreciate your willingness to help,_ Monsieur_ Bonnefoy. We shall be back in two days."

Arthur nodded briefly in salute and turned to leave, mentally swearing never to set foot in this godforsaken place ever again, when the Frenchman cleared his throat to draw their attention.

"I was thinking, since you bothered to come all this way, I might just as well give you a quick reading of your future, just by observing your auras," he said.

The green-eyed blond tsked when Alfred turned around, obviously intrigued and curious and crossed his arms. "Oh. Really?"

Bonnefoy chewed on his bottom lip sensually but with un-dissimulated mirth. "Quite so. For example, you, constable Jones, have a hard path ahead of you, but if you work hard and fight enough you shall prevail and know true happiness," he stated, then sighed dramatically, once more shifting his focus onto the Englishman. "But as for you, detective Kirkland… I'm very much afraid that someone with long fingers will get their hands on you soon enough…"

_**To be continued**_


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

A/N – Hello everyone and thank you all for the praise and feedback, it means a lot to me! Here's the second chapter, enjoy!

Warning: more mentions of substance abuse

Chapter 2 soundtrack:

Sneaker Pimps - 6 Underground

Kuroshitsuji OST 2 ∞ Doll House

Massive Attack - Teardrop

Smoke City – Underwater Love

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><p>Elizaveta's perfect lips wrapped around the silver muzzle of the pipe and she took a long drag, inhaling the fragrant smoke to its fullest while she examined the current situation. Her mentor seemed oddly thoughtful and introspective all the sudden, having fallen into that peculiar state right after the two constables had left. His usual mirth had dissolved and he was left pondering, mulling over something occult in uncharacteristic concentration. He was becoming boring too, on top of the other inconveniences.<p>

"Francis, you're not really considering giving the police any _actual _information about what's going on, are you?" she asked in a tone of disbelief and if only just to break the tedious silence.

The dark blue eyes lazily shifted their focus from the silk hem of the bedclothes he was absentmindedly caressing to his charge's standing frame, taking in her expression. "And why wouldn't I? It's not like I have anything to be afraid of, now do I?"

"But are we not supposed to be discreet, _cher_ Francis? Is that not why we live down here?" She did not add 'in this unbelievable shithole', because she'd already voiced her opinion without effect countless times before. "So why cause all this complication now?" the Hungarian insisted, frowning.

"Well, why _not_ cause it? I'm bored… Besides, the constables are young, they want a fight – it would take a blind man not to see that. So why should I not give them the fight they seek, give them the chance to do what's right and risk everything for a noble cause?"

The brunette could not help finding that amusing and she turned around and opened a trunk containing some of their random possessions and pulled out a fancy walking stick. "I am detective Kirkland and this is constable Jones. We're here to ask you some questions, you bloody frog!" she said solemnly, mimicking the Englishman's voice and pointing the walking stick towards Francis' nose in a dramatic pose.

The blond laughed in turn, shaking his head. "Oh, but he didn't say that. 'You bloody frog'."

"It was implied, _cher_ Francis," Elizaveta pointed. "Also, I don't think you impressed them with your compliment. Either it was too subtle or the two of them too skeptical, but it slipped completely. All that poetry wasted. But serves you right if you had nothing better to do than to flirt with some silly little boy from the New World with a pumpkin for a head and a British pipsqueak with a stick up his arse."

Francis turned slightly, the flickering flames of the two oil lamps casting eerie shadows on his porcelain white complexion and making his now grinning lips appear dark in comparison. An odd gleam was in his eyes too as he sat up slowly, watching his charge intently.

"Well, to be honest, I found the pipsqueak quite endearing and his blunt manner similar to spice onto a well-seasoned meal, _chere_ Elizaveta. The other one will probably die, but perhaps I shall keep him as my _petit lapin_."

* * *

><p>Pale light was pouring in, filtering through the dirty windows of the basement and the air was stale, filled with a vague scent of putrid flesh mixed with some unidentifiable chemicals. Alfred was examining curiously the various jars of dubious and sinister contents, but still with a wary, unsettled expression, while Arthur waited patiently, handkerchief pressed over his mouth and nose to keep away any irritating smells which could have easily triggered a particularly nasty and inconvenient coughing fit, at least for now.<p>

The green-eyed constable's gaze was fixated upon the simple metal table which occupied the center of the small room, where the last of the bodies found lay beneath a simple sheet stained with dried blood. Arthur half dreaded the moment it would be lifted, because he did not want to see that doll face again, with eyes closed as in peaceful sleep, for if anything he knew that she had not died peacefully. It was all a mockery, a sinister trick meant only to strike further horror into the very core of the beholder.

Behind a curtain Dr. Braginski was still rummaging through his tools or doing God knew what, taking his time at any rate.

"What _on earth_ could be taking this long? What is he doing in there?! And do you think that these people have somehow been stripped of their sense of smell?" Alfred muttered, fidgeting and unable to suppress his impatience.

His companion sighed."No, but when one has been exposed to a certain scent for a long time, the nose is no longer able to perceive it," he explained stiffly, discreetly removing his handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket when the curtain was drawn at last and the doctor emerged.

The tall, solid Russian was wearing a crisp white shirt, a pristine black apron and his ashen blond hair was combed to perfection, yet the pallor of his cheek and the tired gaze of his purple eyes were giving an unexpected air of frailty to this massive man. His shoulders were always slumped, as if he were somehow embarrassed by his own height.

"Well, hello," he greeted the two policemen somewhat bashful. "I really was hoping there would be no need for us to meet again this soon, da," he added with a wry smile, motioning with his head towards the table. "You are well I hope?"

"Quite so…"

Braginski blinked, his gaze sweeping over the two younger men standing on the other side of the examination table, then almost inconspicuously shook his head. "Kirkland, you will forgive me for saying this openly, but perhaps you should see a doctor. I don't mean to sound grim, but you are beginning to take a shade very similar to that of my clients."

Well, great. If the Russian had thought a bit of small talk would brighten the gloomy atmosphere, he'd surely chosen the wrong subject. "I have seen a doctor already. He told me I should get a wife."

"Dear God, a _wife_? Whatever for?"

Arthur pursed his lips in a sour grimace. "He said that I need a woman in my bed, but one that would warm me up without requiring to be impressed, I am not to exert myself, you see. So that's why it must be a wife… honestly I cannot see why it can't very well be a bloody stove."

"Certainly a stove would be better, da," the Russian agreed, laughing. "He must have clearly overlooked the multitude of inconveniences of a wife, which can send a man to an untimely grave faster than any illness…"

Oh well, he must have known what he was talking about, the policeman thought. "So, Doctor, do you have anything for us?" he asked, eager to get it over with. It was important to hear what the man had to say, but in truth Dr. Braginski had had little to say after examining the previously found bodies, aside from what they'd been able to observe themselves. The nature of the wounds, as they were, didn't answer the question as to what sort of person would have inflicted them.

The ashen blond cleared his throat awkwardly, moving to lift the sheet and uncover the corpse. "Well, I have to say, constable, that your initial assumptions were correct, for the most part, da," he said."However, the dog hypothesis puzzles me somewhat. You see – Toris, bring me my special glasses, will you? – the bite marks on most of the remains can be attributed to a dog of some sort, in those parts where teeth have obviously torn the skin and scraped and snapped the bones, but the neck is a bit of a different story…"

Ivan took a peculiar pair of goggles hastily brought by his younger assistant and put them on, then used a sharp instrument to point at what he was talking about. The two policemen drew closer in turn, stooping over to see and Arthur could no longer avoid the sight.

"As we know, the neck was neatly severed from the body with a sharp instrument. That bit is puzzling also, as I have found, since it appears to have been done with a single and very precise stroke," the doctor explained." In truth, I had not given it much thought before, with the other victims, naturally assuming that it must have been done with a very sharp knife, da. But then, how can the relatively light, thin blade of a knife cut through skin, muscle and bones in a single stroke? An axe though would have caused a far less precise incision, this looks like the effect of a guillotine."

"Yes, but it is rather absurd to assume that the killer could have been walking around carrying a guillotine, even one of small size, completely unnoticed," the detective observed. "Besides, I suppose that no matter how small, such an instrument would also be quite heavy to carry around in the first place, don't you think?"

Braginski nodded. "Exactly. That's why I am left to assume that it could only have been someone with a very, very strong hand! But then, who has such a strong hand?"

"Right…" Arthur fished a small notebook and a pencil out of his pocket and began jotting down. The suspect was very likely a bulky person, and someone adept at performing such an incision with both strength and skill. A doctor perhaps? "You were saying that there's something peculiar about the bite marks on the neck as well?" he reminded the Russian.

"Ah, yes! To be precise, the bite marks on the neck (or should I say _puncture wounds_?_)_ do not match the others. They are finer, appearing to be made by smaller, sharper teeth, da. I found it quite strange and at some point I wondered whether it wasn't in fact some sort of instrument or needles disposed in such a way as to resemble bite marks..." the doctor paused, looking up from the corpse and blinking questioningly.

Arthur turned to see that his younger colleague had become rather green in the face and a shaky hand was currently gripping his arm for support.

"Ah… there is a bucket for guests over there, in the corner, constable Jones," the Russian indicated kindly.

"So, to sum it up, doctor, it would be a fair assumption to conclude that someone has used the victim's body to perform some sort of experiment – since you mentioned instruments - or perhaps ritual and then fed the remains to a dog?" the green-eyed constable asked, scowling as he did his best to ignore the background sounds.

Ivan Braginski took off his goggles, straightened his back and sighed, motioning for his assistant to leave them. He set down his tool and rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncertain.

"Now, constable, speaking of a _ritual_, I don't know how devout or superstitious you are, but…" The doctor hesitated, his wary gaze trailing from the detective to his very pale looking colleague, who was still kneeling on the floor in a corner. "Well, the thing is that I have accidentally made a rather intriguing observation, da."

With slow, meticulous movements he untied and took off the apron and undid the first two buttons of his shirt, digging inside. A thin, silver chain came into view, bearing a small cross pendant of the same material and a glass phial of sorts, filled with translucent liquid. The Russian took off the chain and held up the phial, flicking the small cork off with his thumb.

"Holy water," he said simply. "I never thought much of it, but my mother always insisted I should wear it at all times, as protection against evil spirits. A superstition from my home country, da… Anyway, from a strictly chemical point of view, if you will, holy water is just water, sometimes infused with extracts of certain plants, all in all, nothing to justify the peculiar reaction I have observed yesterday. Let me show you something, constable, if you will just give me your hand…"

He motioned for Arthur and the constable removed his glove, presenting him his open palm. "Now," the doctor went on, letting a drop of holy water fall onto the exposed skin, "you will see that nothing happens, as nothing _should_ happen, da. But yesterday I had a little accident with the cork while I was examining the remains and the water spilled, soaked through my shirt and dripped onto the flesh. And this happened…"

Braginski poured another drop of holy water on what was left of the woman's torso. Instantly a sizzling sound could be heard and a sickening smell emanated from the reaction.

"See? It _burns_…"

The Englishman remained planted firmly next to the table, eyes fixed onto the now burned, blackened hole in the flesh with a stern expression and wiping his hand away on his trousers with a slow motion. He carefully placed the notebook and pencil back inside his pocket and crossed his arms.

"Doctor, this isn't any sort of… joke, is it now?" he asked ill-humoredly.

The Russian shook his head.

"Then what exactly are you implying?"

The ashen blond shrugged. "I'm hardly implying anything, but it is known that supposedly holy water only causes this sort of reaction upon contact with something impure, _unholy_. Of course, I've never seen anything like this before or know of anyone who has, after all, that's just… what the Church says, da."

Arthur scowled – he could really have used a less fantastic insight on the matter! Unholy? What did that even mean, that the murdered woman had been unholy? Or that her body had been tainted by a demonic being? What rubbish! His head was beginning to hurt, slowly but surely.

"Couldn't it be that the body has been contaminated with some sort of chemical?"

"Nothing that would have such a reaction, no. After all it's just water, constable."

* * *

><p>The green-eyed blond sighed morosely, gloved fingers pressing his forehead under the brim of his hat. He was tired and the lack of results was only adding to his general state of depression. They'd hardly found anything new, other than that their man was an unusually strong individual and possibly a doctor. They would have to go back to the dwellings of the victims and inquire whether they had been visited by any doctor.<p>

Arthur scowled at the pavement beneath his boots, no, that probably wouldn't help much. Whoever the culprit was, he'd planned everything carefully, meaning to confuse as well as frighten. The peculiar mixture of gruesomeness and precision in the execution pointed to someone quite clever and no doubt the mangling of the bodies had been used to conceal any subtle traces. Perhaps the killer had made a mistake in his desire to 'preserve' the faces to some extent, leaving visible marks of the instruments used. And then there was the opium… often prescribed by doctors for various afflictions. But was the culprit really a doctor? Hell.

"To be honest, I've always found Dr. Braginski rather disturbing," Alfred confessed, breaking the other's train of thought."And now this? You don't suppose he could be right?"

"The use of instruments points towards some sort of scientific interest, so our man might be a doctor, yes. We shall report it to the Chief Inspector, since it's all we've got so far…"

"No, Arthur, the _other_ thing!"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Obviously we cannot tell the Inspector this preposterous little tale, unless we want to become acquainted with the insides of Bedlam on a permanent basis. And one cannot possibly presume that the killer is anything but a man, like you and me and not some unholy creature. Admittedly, Braginski is a superstitious man himself and has probably spent too much time among the dead to think entirely straight anymore."

He stared up at the cloud-laden sky as the other huffed in frustration, realising that it was going to be dark soon. It was still fairly early but the days had become shorter and grimmer and… plain useless as of late. Upon reading their thin report the Chief Inspector would soon be furrowing his brow, running a weary hand through his white, short trimmed hair and sigh, casually observing that perhaps he'd rushed somewhat with Arthur's promotion, since now his youngest detective appeared to have lost his touch and interest in the job.

"Well, we have no choice, it seems. So in order for today not to be a complete waste of time, you will go and ask about the sights of any doctor visiting the victims as of late – cover as many addresses as you can until tonight – and I will go and see that ridiculous fortuneteller because it's been two days already and maybe he has something for us."

Arthur hated the idea of going back to that man who had made him such an awful impression the first time, but he really had no option other than to explore all possibilities. And if Francis Bonnefoy – _Clairvoyant and Philosopher_ was as good an information trafficker as he'd claimed to be, well…

Alfred however looked positively indignant at the suggestion. "Arthur, I don't want you to go back there on your own, it's too dangerous!"

"Nonsense, I'll be just fine," his colleague grumbled in reply. "Now off you go and I'll see you at dinner."

* * *

><p>He wasn't in luck. By the time he made it to the cemetery, it was raining – not just drizzle, but a full-out downpour. Arthur walked hurriedly into the shelter of the small mausoleum, leaning on the inside of the door to catch his breath and blow his nose, with which occasion the constable noted that even his handkerchief was wet. The only thing yet untouched by the blasted rain was the scotch in his flask and he made generous use of it, even if it left his throat burning and he knew it was bad for his cough.<p>

Again Arthur was without a lantern and forced to stumble blindly down treacherous stairs and along pitch dark pathways, but he was glad that at least this time his younger friend hadn't followed. Deep down he knew that his constant 'mothering' was doing Alfred no good in the long term – he'd have to get used to tough stuff if he was to make it in this profession – but this place, the 'Little Underworld' was an accurate miniature of Hell and one he'd rather have spared Alfred from.

The man standing guard at the gate – the detective did not notice or care if it was the same man or another – made little inquiry into his purposes and caused no trouble, probably because he was alone. A word of Mr. Wang's watchfulness was delivered nevertheless and Arthur could not help appreciate how serious the owner was about the safety of his business. It must have been quite an investment, after all.

He was shivering as he walked towards the Frenchman's alcove, water having gone all the way through his clothes and reached his skin. The ever pestering cough wasn't momentarily present but his chest was beginning to ache even in its absence. Some of the beds he passed by looked very comfortable and Arthur found himself wondering, if only for a moment, what it would have been like if he were allowed to just lie there, to rest without a worry, free from pain and chagrin.

The strange brunette woman was there again, standing guard by Bonnefoy's place, but now the curtain was pulled back and the fortuneteller seemed to have been expecting him.

"Hello Mr. Bonnefoy, madam…" the detective said with a curt nod while attempting to scrutinize their expressions.

"Ah, you have returned, constable," the blond stretched on the sofa said with a charming smile. "That means you were not frightened by my grim predictions, were you? But my, you are soaked!"

Suddenly, he was up on his feet, his slender, gracious frame towering a bit over the policeman. It irked Arthur to no end that the bloody Frenchman was taller than him and that he now had to look up at the man's face. Damn him to hell!

"Can we get you anything to make you more comfortable? Some tea perhaps?" Bonnefoy offered in a sweet tone, as if he were talking to a pouting child.

"I'm quite fine, thank you. I was wondering if you have managed to find out anything about the murders."

The fortuneteller smirked, obviously pleased with himself as he dug inside one large pocket of his velvet coat and produced a carefully folded piece of paper, holding it up with two fingers for the other blond to see. He began explaining something in a low voice, but for some reason his words were a complete blur and Arthur scowled, unable to comprehend a single thing. Then the sight darkened before his eyes, growing more and more unfocused before his eyelids suddenly fell shut and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

><p>Smoke. Heavy, thick opium smoke. Flickering shadows danced on the low ceiling as he lied face up on the sofa, covered with a warm blanket. Warm and comfortable and… already lying in a tomb. The sudden sinister thought forced the green-eyed blond up into a sitting position, panting slightly and blinking as his eyes struggled to adapt to the dim light. But he <em>was<em> in a tomb, that was what Wang's opium den was, both literally and figuratively, one large tomb.

"Ah, constable, you're awake! You gave us quite a fright earlier, you know?" Bonnefoy stated, smoking his pipe untroubled.

"But you are alright now, are you not, sir?" the brunette woman asked, sitting down beside Arthur and reaching out as if intending to run her fingers through his hair, but the Frenchman caught her wrist before she could touch him, a light scowl on his face as he did, muttering something and pointing out that the constable wasn't one of _her_ clients.

"Forgive me, I… I think I must have…"

"You fainted, probably out of exhaustion, if I may say so. You slept for quite a bit, you see," the fortuneteller observed, appearing genuinely concerned as the detective took out his pocket watch and stared at it with a disbelieving frown. It was almost ten thirty in the evening. Bloody hell! "I think you should go home and rest now…"

* * *

><p>By the time he got home, chilled to the bone and shivering in the damp clothes, he already had a fever. His cheeks burned unmistakably and his head felt heavy as he dragged himself up the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible – their landlady went to bed early but she was a light sleeper.<p>

Quietly, Arthur let himself in into his and Alfred's small room, noticing with some relief that the stove was functional. For cost efficiency's sake, the two of them shared the rented lodging and even that wasn't much – a single room with a narrow bed on each side, a table by the window and an old, worn wardrobe. The rug covering the wooden boards of the floor had seen better days and the wallpaper was peeling off in corners, but they found it comfortable enough.

"Arthur, where have you been?! Do you have any idea how late it is?!" the younger man instantly jumped at his sight, abandoning the book he'd been reading, a worried frown on his face. "I was worried sick, knowing that you'd gone down… down there again!"

The green-eyed blond sighed – Alfred couldn't know that he had fainted and slept like a rock on the Frenchman's sofa for a few hours, he would have worried even more. With a grimace, he took out the piece of paper Bonnefoy had supplied. "The frog actually got something for us, but in return I had to listen to his nonsensical blabber for hours. My head hurts," he grumbled in reply. "I'll tell you all about it in the morning though, right now I'm so tired I can't even think."

* * *

><p>It had gotten warmer, flesh no longer feeling frozen on his bones. A pleasant, enveloping drowsiness dulled his senses and Arthur stretched, muscles relaxing, all ache gone from his head and chest. The sheets were feather soft around his body and under his fingers, warm, soft as snowflakes and feather light.<p>

But something felt peculiar, off and he was almost… sitting? The blond forced his eyes open, suddenly being met with the sight of countless flickering candles. With an instant scowl, Arthur lifted his hand – at first intent on rubbing his eyes – and saw the pristine sheets crumbling oddly between his fingers, flakes still attached to his hand as he held it up, in front of his face. Blinking, the policeman realized that it was fine foam and water was sloshing gently around his arm. Apparently he was sitting in a foam-covered bath, his back propped against the wall of the basin and the back of his neck and head resting comfortably onto a soft, folded towel. His fever was gone, but he was dizzy as hell, in dire need of sleep.

"Ah, I see that you are finally awake, _mon petit lapin_," a voice said suddenly and the green-eyed blond looked up brusquely, to his complete shock discovering the Frenchman only a few inches away in front of him, appearing to relax in a similar fashion.

His body reacted instinctively - albeit much slower than it normally would have – pulling his knees to his chest defensively as his fingers reached out to grip the edge of the bath. But that was it, since the effort it would have taken to pull himself up and out and… simply get the hell out of there was just too much for his fatigue. Yet the sight of the fortuneteller repelled him more than ever now that he was seeing him in brighter light, his heart told him that there was something foul under that flawless, unnatural beauty with skin too pale, lips too red and eyes too bright, burning with a hidden fire.

"What the hell is going on?! What am I doing in your bath, sir?! And don't call me your bloody 'little rabbit'!" Arthur wanted to shout, but it only came out as a mumbled groan, barely intelligible. God, he was so tired!

Monsieur Bonnefoy's smile didn't falter, he only tilted his head to the side, mildly curious. "Ah, I thought you didn't understand French, constable," he said softly in reply, but momentarily provided no explanation as to the circumstances of the peculiar encounter. Some foul play must have been at work regardless, because the constable was absolutely sure that there was no way in hell he could have ever _consented _to this. And what the hell was this to begin with?

"It was forced down my throat to some extent at some point during my education…" Damn, he didn't want to say that, why had he said that? "Anyway, you didn't answer… what… why am I here?" He wanted to rub off the drowsiness and only succeeded in getting soap in his eyes. The foam was pleasantly scented – fresh and suave roses – but it stung like hell and the policeman moaned and sniffed, eyes watering heavily and incapable of getting rid of it.

The blue-eyed man shifted slowly, lazily but efficiently, closing the distance between their bodies and reaching out, somewhere past Arthur's shoulder and grabbing what turned out to be a pitcher with clean water. He poured some into his large palm and then ran it down the smaller blond's face, gently wiping away the troublesome soap. "There, _mon petit lapin_," he soothed, then reaching up again and smoothing one thick, wet eyebrow with his thumb in an almost tender motion.

"Listen, sir, do you think-… what the hell are you thinking?!" Arthur questioned, as sternly as he could as his eyes snapped open again and fleetingly considering that perhaps he should have at least tried to push the man away instead of allowing this absurd invasion of his personal space and these odd touches.

Francis Bonnefoy smirked mysteriously, oblivious to the other's reluctant body language. "Actually, I was thinking that… your eyes are beautiful like jewels, large and bright, your lips are like petals and your skin like pristine white velvet…"

The Englishman frowned, having trouble processing what he'd just heard because it made no bloody sense whatsoever. "W-what now? It's r-revolting…" he mumbled, his head falling back and dizziness growing worse. He made no move to struggle or oppose when the other blond did the unthinkable and Arthur found himself pulled to sit into the man's lap. But the policeman only slumped against the man's torso, resting his forehead in the moist, bare crook of his neck, the touch of their naked bodies pressed together failing to make an impression on him whatsoever.

"Sir, I have to tell you that this is… both highly inappropriate and uncomfortable…" the green-eyed young man pointed regardless. His fingers dug absentmindedly into the Frenchman's shoulder and his observant mind – trained to work even in drunken stupor - made a peculiar note, so blatant that it could not have possibly escaped him. There was no warmth to that perfect flesh and under the soft, alabaster skin the muscles were iron hard, oddly unfitting for someone lazing their life away on a sofa in an opium den.

But the fortuneteller soon distracted him by picking up his thin wrist between two of his long fingers and running the tip of his nose up towards the hand, as if trying to capture the scent of Arthur's skin. The Englishman watched numbly as the man's lips first explored his open palm, then the tip of each of his fingers, but not quite kissing them, inhaling deeply with half-lidded eyes.

"Y-You're mad…"

The blue eyes opened slowly with a sinister gleam and Francis smirked lightly, parting his lips and pressing them to the constable's wrist. Pain shot up Arthur's arm and he winced, all blur gone for the briefest moment before everything went dark.

* * *

><p>Crude morning light forced his eyes open and the constable groaned, uselessly attempting to sink his head further into the pillow. He would need to be up soon, leave the pleasant warmth of his little bed and face the cold of the poorly heated room. The night's rest had helped his state somewhat, enough to keep him able to work for another day.<p>

Alfred had not stirred for now, so it couldn't have been yet time to wake. Concluding that, the green-eyed blond decided to curl up under the covers for a little bit longer, letting the drowsiness of sleep wear off gradually. He tucked his hands under the pillow, his sleeves being pulled up slightly with the motion and then he felt it – faint, barely there but present nevertheless, the sweet, poisonous, intoxicating scent of roses.

_**To be continued**_


End file.
